The Unloved
by Emperor of Aces
Summary: Slick drinks too much one night and starts pouring out his feelings, but Boxcars knows just what to say to a guy who only thinks he's unloved.


**The Unloved**

Slick hates smiling in front of people. He'll never laugh in front of anyone, or knit his brow in worry, or, God forbid it, cry. He likes to pretend the only emotion he's got is anger. No worry, no joy, no sorrow. Just anger. Spades Slick, world-class bottle of sentient rage.

But let him have a little too much to drink, and he'll melt. He's usually responsible with his drinking, he'll consume a lot, yeah, but he typically makes sure he's had just enough to avoid becoming sloshed. Sometimes, however, even he makes mistakes. Even Spades Slick crosses his own thresholds, carrying too much emotion on his weary shoulders, and then, just like that, the barriers break and out rushes the flood. Feverishly drunk and destined for a hangover in the near future, Spades Slick, with all his pent-up feelings charged strong with melancholic venom, cries hard and ugly.

And Hearts Boxcars is the only man around who is willing to deal with him.

It's not that the others don't care; it's not like that at all. When Slick's out for blood and revving himself up to so something rash, it's Droog who steps in to cool him down, to keep him from doing something completely stupid. When he's got to learn to be less of a stiff, to have a little fun that doesn't involve gutting some green fellow in the middle of the night, Deuce is his man. They care about their kingpin alright, and they love him like a brother. Even a fool could see that. The problem with them, however, is that they aren't so learned in the matters of the heart, and, Boxcars, he is. So, it just makes sense that he's the guy to deal with Slick when he's in one of his moods.

Like now. Like when they're sitting on the couch together at two in the morning while Slick is stone-drunk on sambuca, crying and whining about love. The TV is on, but neither of them are watching it. It just provides a monotonous drone underlying the sounds of Slick's cries. He's pressed up against Boxcars' side, his face buried in the big man's chest, and just pouring out the rain. His hands, the claws at their tips sharp and untrimmed, clench and release in time with his sobs, grabbing painful handfuls of Boxcars' pajamas.

Despite the bothersome pinching of Slick's claws, the other man tolerates the discomfort. Best to just let Slick cry it out.

"I'm such a god awful piece of shit." Slick's voice is slurred and stuffy from his sobbing. His throat is most likely redraw at this point, but his words are clear to Boxcars because he's just so used to dealing with Slick when he gets like this. "I got all this fucking money and shit, and this town. You'd think I'd be able to do this kind of shit right, but..._god dammit_."

He nuzzles his damp and heated face into Boxcars' soft chest and releases a gurgling sob. Scrawny fingers tighten their hold on the big man's clothes.

The din of the TV is beginning to bother him, now, when accompanied by Slick's cries, so Boxcars sighs and switches off his favorite nighttime soap. Not that he was actually watching it, anyway.

Boxcars throws a thick arm around the small man's shoulders and pulls him closer. His boss seems so impossibly tiny in this moment that it sickens him, breaks his heart. He hates seeing Slick like this. He knows all men, himself amongst them, have their weaknesses, but with Slick, the guy who got them through every high and low from the very beginning, he likes to pretend those weaknesses aren't there. It's a dumb thing to think, but it's also feels good to play pretend.

"C'mon, pal," he gives Slick's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, "don't go talkin' down about yerself like that. Ya ain't a 'god damn piece of shit' and ya know it."

"No, I am." He sits up and wipes his nose with his sleeve, leaving a sticky smear. "I can't do a fucking thing right, unless it involves killing or some shit."

Boxcars frowns and runs his hand down the length of Slick's bony spine, then gently strokes between his shoulder blades. "You're better at more than that, Slick. Like playin' poker, or the piano. Hell, you're so good at playin' the piano that even the Felt's stuffy harpsichord player won't say a bad thing about ya in that regard."

Slick shakes his head, his sullen eyes looking towards the living room's grey rug. "It ain't about respect, though. You can still respect a guy while hating his guts."

Boxcars grits his fangs and cringes, realizing he couldn't have picked a more awful example. "So, what is it about, then?" He's got an idea, and idea clearer than dewdrops in spring, regarding what 'it's' about, but he feels he has got to ask anyway. Just in case he's wrong, again.

"It's...no, I can't. Just – I can't." Slick lurches up from his seat on the couch. He takes a step forward on shaky legs and immediately begins to stumble, his knees too weak to support his weight. Boxcars snags him by the back of his collar and then eases him back down into the cushions of the leather couch. Slick's brow is knitted in an annoyed glare and his cheeks are still drunkenly flushed, but he stays in the seat.

"Slick, c'mon. Frickin' talk to me." Boxcars encloses one of Slick's hands in his own mammoth grasp. His boss's fingers are tense and clammy. "Shit ain't gonna get better fer ya if ya coop it up like you're doin'."

Slick hesitates for a moment, gnawing the corner of his mouth with his upper fangs, but, as always, he eventually lets go. "Hearts, I got all these riches, and this town, and this respect, but...no one likes me." Slick cried to hard earlier that he has no tears left to spare, but Boxcars can hear the distress in his strained voice. If Slick still had tears left to shed, he would. "No one thinks I'm a great guy to be around. Hell, people from the fucking Felt hang around with Deuce, and me, I don't even get normal townsfolk wanting to shoot the shit." He clears his throat and shivers. "And don't even get me started on romance..."

Boxcars almost wants to laugh at him. Not to be an asshole or to make light of his problems, but because he's seen this sort of thing time and time again in people, and he can't believe he completely missed it in his own boss.

It's funny how people tend to put such value on the opinions of strangers, and turn a blind eye to their family and friends. Slick lives with three people who adore him in all the ways he wants to be adored, but he's so used to their presence that he's just sort of lost them under the rug, like a kid losing that one toy that he really loves but still forgets about, eventually. Boxcars can't be insulted by it because it's just so typical. Everyone has done it at least once, himself included.

"Well, we love ya, Slick." Boxcars can't quite keep the humor out of his voice. "Me and Deuce and Droog. We wouldn't live with ya like this if we didn't."

Slick stops his whimpering and sniffling to fall into a thoughtful silence. At length, he slumps forward, head in his hands. "Oh fuck. Oh fuck, I am so dumb."

Boxcars laughs a huge belly-laugh that shakes his entire figure, then pats slick reassuringly on the back. "Nah, not dumb. Just kind of drunk."

Slick snickers quietly at that, then he snuggles back against Boxcars' side with his head rested against his chest and one arm sprawled across the big man's stomach. He shuts his eyes, but then, moments later, when Boxcars thinks that Slick has at last fallen asleep, he speaks. "Boxcars?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you too." He yawns, sharp teeth glinting amidst the darkness. "And when I wake up, remind me to tell the other guys, too."

Boxcars give a curt, hissing snicker, because he knows once Slick sobers up and gets some shut-eye, he's going to deny that this incident ever took place, but he gives his friend a tight squeeze anyway. "Will do, pal. Will do."


End file.
